


Day and Night

by itstartswith_aardvark



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Breaking the Bed, Considerate Lovers, M/M, Porn With Plot, Samsteve - Freeform, Slice of Life, T'chucky - Freeform, casual smut, god that's a gross ship name, inconsiderate friends, it's mostly plot tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-29
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-07-27 11:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7616497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itstartswith_aardvark/pseuds/itstartswith_aardvark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As far as they know both of them left movie night under…similar circumstances. Sam and Steve had a great night. T'challa and Bucky on the other hand...<br/>“My god,” Sam marvels, eyes wide in disbelief. “What happened to your faces? Plural, like both of you look like hell. No offense, your highness.” T'Challa takes a sip of coffee, black eye shining in the morning sun.<br/>“None taken.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day and Night

“So, he is a machine?”

“No, he's just able to move like them.”

“Why?”

“He's The One, he just can.”

“The one what?”

“Kill me.” Tony throws his hands up and gets up from the couch, abandoning team movie night. The Matrix had been a poor choice, not that anyone's paying attention. Clint was asleep before it began, Natasha's fiddling with one of her guns, and Sam and Steve are quietly making out in the corner while Vision and Wanda squabble over recipes. That leaves T'Challa and Bucky, faces buried in the bright screens of their phones and Tony, trying to explain the whole thing to Thor.

“We have another dinner to attend in two weeks,” T'Challa mutters, not looking away from his phone.

“What are you wearing?”

“Most likely the navy suit.”

“So I should wear the black?” T'Challa's brow knits itself into a frown.

“No, try the aubergine.”

“I wore that last time.”

“No, you didn't, you wore the dark brown.”

“It was the aubergine, I remember 'cause I spilled wine on it and it didn't show.” Now he does look up, eyes narrowed on Bucky.

“You spilled wine on a ninety-eight hundred dollar suit and didn't say anything?” Bucky rolls his eyes and cocks his head defiantly to the side.

“Oh, so now you remember what I wore,”

“Maybe if you didn't have me tearing it off you every ten minutes I could.”

“You've never complained before-”

Oblivious to his best friend's lovers' quarrel Steve hums happily to himself as Sam anchors his fingers in his hair, tongue dancing briefly over his lips. His hum turns into a soft moan when he feels a hand on his waist pull him closer.

“What do you say,” Sam pants, trying to catch his breath without being heard over Bucky and T'Challa fighting in the hallway. “We get out of here?”

“And go where? It's almost midnight, I'm pretty sure everything's closed.” Sam pulls back and gives him a blank look.

“Get out of here as in, go home. With me. For the night.” Confusion still clouds Steve's baby blues.

“You mean...”

“Sex, Stevie. He means sex,” Bucky calls over his shoulder. He turns to find him and T'Challa sinking back into their spots on the couch, freshly fading bruises and bites adorning his neck. T'Challa mutters something in Wakandan that he doesn't understand but seems to offend Bucky, so much so that he spits something back that he also doesn't understand. In no time flat they're punching each other in the hallway again, but something tells him they won't be coming back this time. The thought calls his attention back to Sam, who's been waiting patiently for a response.

“So..sex?”

“Unless you don't want to-”

“No,” he cuts him off, earning a chuckle from him. "That’s fine with me."

The next morning they shuffle into the kitchen, still a little sleepy and more than a little sore but not too much worse for the wear. 

"You want some pancakes?" Sam asks, big brown eyes sparkling at Steve. 

"Sure, I'll have some," he replies, only partially referring to the pancakes. They find the other couple of the hour sitting at the island drinking coffee. As far as they know both of them left movie night under…similar circumstances. Sam and Steve had a great night. T'challa and Bucky on the other hand...

“My god,” Sam marvels, eyes wide in disbelief. “What happened to your faces? Plural, like both of you look like hell. No offense, your highness.” T'Challa takes a sip of coffee, black eye shining in the morning sun.

“None taken.” T'Challa's face may be rough, the shiner being the worst among other small bruises, but it's really the way Bucky stands, partially leaning against the kitchen island, wincing with every shift of his weight that makes the scene the humorous pity it is. There are red welts across his neck; receipts from previously more serious injuries.

"You alright, Buck? You're looking a little shaky," Steve questions. If the tired look that crosses his face speaks volumes, then the reserved pain in T'Challa's eyes when he takes the cup directly out of his hands to drain it in one gulp speaks an entire library. 

"Right as rain," he says, handing back the empty cup, voice sounding worse than he looks, if that's possible. T'Challa gives the mug a sincerely mournful glance before sitting it in the sink in the middle of the island. Whatever happened to them must've been insane; one to get past T'Challa's lightning reflexes and two, to have Bucky this trashed even hours later with his accelerated healing. Sam can only shudder at the thought of what it used to look like.  
Sam makes three boxes worth of pancakes and T'Challa and Bucky eat most of them. After a while someone speaks.

"So are you guys gonna sit here and sulk all day or did you plan on seeking medical attention sometime in the near future?"

"Getting up from this spot was not in my agenda for the day, no." T'Challa finishes his ninth pancake and reaches for a tenth. As he extends his arm his shirt shifts and reveals an angry bite mark, sitting right in the hollow of his neck and shoulder.

"One hell of a night, huh?" Both of them look up; slow, exhausted, and sigh. 

"You have no idea."

* * *

The walk to Sam's apartment is quiet but the raw energy arching between them makes it buzz with life just the same. It had taken a considerable amount of time to convince him to take an apartment in tower but nights like this with just enough at stake make it worth it. They aren't exactly hurrying but there's a deliberate spring in their stroll. _He's giving me time to change my mind,_ Steve thinks, and the thought makes him smile. As if he'd read the mind in question Sam speaks, his tone as deliberate as their relaxed pace.

"You know," he starts, flashing his incapacitating smile. "If you don't want to, we don't have to." Steve smiles bigger, one hand finding its way into Sam's, lacing their fingers together. Sam takes it, brushing his thumb lightly over his.

"What makes you think I don't?" 

"It's not that I think you don't, it's that I want to know for sure that you do." Sam's door appears before them and they stop, neither of them making a move, seemingly waiting. Sam leans with his back against the wall, still holding Steve's hand. There's something deep in the twinkling sienna of his eyes that he can't quite name, something patient and soft but confident and determined all at the same time. Whatever it is tells him he doesn't have to wait anymore so he doesn't. He closes the distance between them and kisses him, this time different from all the other times. This one is deeper and hungry and he feels the weight of its significance vibrate down his spine and through his legs. Sam must feel it too; he cups his face with the hand that isn't claiming his own, the two locked together tight enough to bruise. When they pull apart they're both breathless, pupils blown and lips still touching ever so slightly.  
When Steve speaks his voice is low, barely above a whisper.

"I want this." Sam believes him.

* * *

"That the best you got, pussycat?" Bucky groans, picking himself off the stone floor. T'Challa cracks his neck, easing out the tension in his muscles from throwing him to into the floor. His expression reads half amused, half irritated. Bucky is proud to inspire both simultaneously. He staggers to his feet and tries to regulate his breathing but he's almost certain T'Challa can hear his heart pounding. He adores sparring, more than he probably should, and the fact that he's willing to kick his ass anytime, anyplace makes his heart swell. But tonight more than his heart's swelling. T'Challa's eye is starting to puff up from a particularly brutal left hook - the one that got him body slammed into solid granite. He doesn't seem too concerned by it, though.

"Are we going to fight, or are you going to keep wasting my time?" He croons with a smirk, flexing absent claws out of habit. Bucky rolls his shoulder, loving his lighter, faster arm. It doesn't whir violently like the old one, and best of all it's rid of that awful star.

"Dunno," he croons back, pulling his hair into a bun with the ever-present elastic on his wrist; a sure sign that they will, in fact, fight. "Are you gonna start fighting like you mean it?" The laugh that tears through the hallway makes the corners of his mouth tug up into a devilish smile. A smile that T'Challa mirrors as he takes his stance and beckons him on. Bucky licks his lips and charges. His blood sings as a fist connects with his side and his whole body collides with the floor as he swings his legs and takes both of them down. They grapple for a while and he can't say he's surprised when his wrists slam into the floor and knees pin his hips. After all, it's how most of their fights end. He won't admit it, not even on the pain of death, but T'challa is _just barely_ stronger than him. Barely. Neither of them move, and he can feel his skin heat under the scrutiny of eyes raking over him. 

"What, you gonna fight me or are you gonna fuck me?" T'Challa lets his wrists go and sits back, still holding Bucky's gaze. He smirks, all sharp teeth and fire.

"Let's find out."

* * *

" _Ah,_ " Steve hisses, head swimming, eyes threatening to roll back into his head again. "Sam-"  
Though his vision is blurry at best he can make out the calm expression on Sam's face as he presses soft kisses to his jaw and cards his fingers through damp blond hair.

"It's okay," he reassures him softly. "I got you." As soothing as it is it doesn't stop the fire burning just under his skin wherever Sam touches or the tingle coiling in his stomach, or the inhuman sounds from clawing their way from his throat.

"I can't-" he starts to protest but the words melt into moans on his lips. He's there, kissing them away.

"Then don't, just let go." He can feel himself on the very edge, getting closer to falling with every rock Sam makes into him, right into that spot he can never get enough pressure on. He arches his back off the bed, splays his legs out wider, angles his hips down as far as his weak spine will allow, anything to get to that tingling spot way up inside him that needs to be touched.

“Sam-” he whines again, tears biting at the corners of his eyes. He needs it, it's right there-

“Tell me what you need,” Sam says against his neck, pushing deeper, taking time to grind into him before pulling back out. He's trying so hard; bringing his knees forward to get better leverage, really putting his back into it, holding off his own climax until Steve gets what he needs. After it's done he always feels a special flourish of appreciation for his lover; after all, it isn't exactly easy satisfying a super soldier. However challenging the task he manages to keep his mind blown, and it adds to the list of reasons Steve Rogers loves Sam Wilson, but he needs to come now and profess his undying love later.

“Stop,” he breathes out, and Sam freezes on a dime.

“What-” he starts, confused, ready to right a wrong he hasn't committed. Steve stops him by sitting up and pushing him back onto the bed. His blue eyes are lidded and glassy, and as he raises himself up to straddle Sam's hips he blushes from flushed cheek to trembling thigh.

“I'll do it myself,” he murmurs, already starting to roll his hips forward. Sam has to tilt his head back and close his eyes; watching the fluid motion of his hips paired with the scalding heat of his velvet insides is sure to break the resolve he's been fighting to maintain for the past two and a half hours. But closing his eyes doesn't block out Steve's sounds, and he's moaning like his life's ending. That's how he knows how serious it is. Steve normally bites back most if not all of his noises, save for a particularly filthy groan when he comes, but the moans ricocheting off the walls are nothing short of pornographic.

“You really want it, don't you?” Sam chokes out, accomplishing the herculean task of not coming on sight as he opens his eyes to see Steve, brows furrowed, eyes wrenched shut and mouth hanging open, taking his pleasure.

“Yes, yes, I want it, I need it,” His babbling tells him that any sudden movement will tip him over the edge, so he shifts just in the slightest and sure enough it makes Steve scream. His whole body goes stiff as a board as he comes across his stomach and it's enough to force his climax out of his control. When he regains consciousness the first thing he's aware of is the warm towel gliding across his abdomen. The next is the warm body cuddling close to him. He hears him draw in a breath to speak.

“If you say on your left I will smother you with this pillow.”

* * *

_Stark's gonna murder us_ , Bucky thinks to himself, and it's amazing that he can even hold a solid thought considering he's getting skull fucked within an inch of his life. Even with the tip of T'Challa's cock massaging his tonsils he can't help but think about the path of cracked tile leading to the door to his apartment or the mess on the staircase from where they just couldn't wait to get back. And of course Tony's going to have something threatening to say when he finds out he broke his precious modern sculpture. He remembers that the most vividly. T'Challa had picked it up and hit him square in the chest with it, and when he doubled over he grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled him up into a kiss that made him see stars. Steve hates it when they fight but nobody understands what it is between them. When T'Challa hits him it's never to do damage. It' just to hurt in the best way, putting that bite of pain there for him to chase away with pleasure. It makes Bucky's heart race, to be treated like the assassin he is and always will be instead of broken glass glued back together. And on the days where he does feel like broken glass he's gentle and reassuring; brushing his hair until he falls asleep and holding him through the nightmares, giving him tender caresses the days he feels touch starved and space when any contact is too much. He loves Disney movies but the way 'I Won't Say I'm In Love' makes his chest feel too tight has him avoiding Hercules like the plague. With his mind wandering he hasn't even noticed the heat in his stomach until he suddenly goes slack jawed around T'Challa and comes completely untouched. He pulls out and gives him a look that burns holes into his soul.

“I'd say sorry,” he croaks with a rattle of a laugh, his voice hoarse. “But I'm not.” 

“Not yet, you aren't.” There's no malice in his voice, but it makes him shiver all the same.

“Oh, are you gonna punish me, _abanekratshi yakho?_ ” He looks up and licks his swollen lips. Bucky prides himself on the little Wakandan he knows, even if it's mainly for use in the bedroom. He prides himself even more on how T'Challa's eyes darken. He doesn't move though.

“Is that something you feel you deserve?” This is testy water for them. They only play the punishment game when Bucky's one hundred percent alright with it. Any hesitation whatsoever and it's out of the question. Tonight he doesn't even know what the word hesitation means. He grins up with hooded eyes.

“ _Ewe, nceda,_ ”

His breath comes in ragged gasps and he lost the ability to moan an hour ago. T'Challa sits against the headboard, expression positively blissful as he bounces in his lap, rotating his hips as he glides down. There's a twinge of pain in his lower back, presumably from being slammed into the wall. If being forced to hold himself up on the balls of his feet and fight off an orgasm for forty five minutes isn't punishment then nothing is. He's still reeling from it. Apparently so is T'Challa; he's murmuring to himself in Wakandan, words Bucky doesn't know. Though their English translation is lost to him he knows they mean he's close. A few more rough grinds and they come together. Before he can stop himself he lurches forward and sinks his teeth into T'Challa's shoulder to muffle the scream that tears from his throat. As he comes down he slides onto the bed, chest heaving and eyelids already drooping.

“Was that really necessary?” he grumbles as he lies down beside him, sounding only partly annoyed. It doesn't stop him from putting an arm across Bucky's waist and pulling him closer, giving a soft smile that he doesn't see when he yawns and snuggles into his arms.

“Yup.” He yawns and the world goes fuzzy as he drifts off to sleep. But there’s a sound, a quiet creak that keeps edging him awake. He tries to ignore it but after a few minutes he can’t stand it.

“What the hell is that noise?”

“You hear it too?” T’Challa sits up and the noise intensifies. He shifts to turn over and it becomes a full on groan.

“It almost sounds like-” Before either of them can react the bed snaps right in half. Bucky hits the floor so hard it knocks the wind out of him and he's seeing double by the time he realizes T’Challa’s taken one of the bed’s legs to the face.

“So much for vibranium reinforced,”

* * *

Bucky stands by the big glass window and watches the jet take off, trying and failing to hide his discontentment. He replays the moments leading up to this one; T'Challa got the call last night, right after they had untangled their limbs and caught their breath. A week-long conference, starting at nine o'clock the next morning. Hardly morning after material but Bucky got up at five with him just the same, helping hunt for cuff links and ties. They exchanged a look when they had to untie one from the new headboard. While they waited for the pilot Bucky snaked his arms around T’Challa’s middle and hugged him close. He nuzzled into soft brown hair, something he knew for sure comforted Bucky. Sure enough it seemed to relax him; some of the tension dropped out of his shoulders and he sighed.

"It's not that bad," he had told him. "I'll send a jet for you Sunday and we'll meet in Wakanda to catch up. We can go to that science museum you like." He smiled softly, kissed him goodbye and he was gone. Sure it's only a week but over time Bucky had found that he made intense emotional connections that made separation very painful. At least that's how his therapist described it. That fancy talk may as well be Greek to him; it’s just about the only language he doesn’t know. All he knows is that when he's away from the people he cares about it's like part of his world is missing. And his sun and sky just hit thirty thousand feet in a jet headed to Beijing. He trudges around the darkened hallways for a while, trying to kill time before the coffeemaker starts. As he enters the kitchen, dragging his feet uncharacteristically, he runs into Sam, sitting alone at the island. 

"Frick and no Frack?" He says tiredly, not looking up from the counter.

"Business meeting. Where's Steve?" Sam glances at a wristwatch that isn't there. 

"Halfway to Serbia by now, I'd bet." He slides into the seat across from him and taps his fingers on the marble. 

"You didn't go with him?" He shrugs and leans back in the chair. 

"They needed Captain America, not Birdman." He nods solemnly and memorizes the pattern of the veins in the marble. He knows exactly what mood Sam's in; he's been there, caught in the captain's inescapable shadow. Heaven knows Steve 'Bleeding Heart' Rogers never meant to impose it, but it's there nonetheless, and Sam and Bucky both are permanent residents. 

"How 'bout we go for a run? That is, if you think we can manage to keep hating each other after." Sam breathes out a laugh and slides down from the chair. They may be sworn enemies but the way his eyes light up makes his day.

"I'd have to run myself to death to stop hating you."

They run a few blocks, calling each other names and teasing when one of them slows down in the slightest. If Steve were with them he'd make them apologize at every rude comment, but he's not, so they pull out all the stops. Bucky bumps Sam so he almost falls into a bush and Sam trips him so he dives face first into a pile of leaves. It's the most fun either of them have had in days. They get coffee and Sam snorts once at Bucky's complicated order and again when he snapchats T'Challa a picture of himself at just the right angle, the one that where sunlight gleams across his eyes and makes them glow.

"You're such a sap," he chuckles, sipping his hot coffee tentatively. "If you two aren't fawning over each other you're punching each other." Bucky rolls his eyes and stirs his iced, ristretto, venti, 4-pump, sugar free, cinnamon, dolce soy skinny latte. The barista had nearly fainted.

"Whatever, Wilson. You act like you and Steve aren't practically an old married couple." Sam almost chokes and tries his damnedest to play it off. Bucky's confused for a moment until a realization casually slips into his mind.

"You didn't." His eyes widen as Sam deflates, burying his head in his hands.

"Not yet."

"What the hell are you waiting for? You know that's what Steve wants more than anything. Are you afraid he'll say no?" He massages his temples, accepting the fact that there's no way to salvage the conversation. 

"No, that's not it. I know he loves me, I just can't, every time I try something happens and I just- I can't get the timing right."

"That's bullshit, just do it."

"It's not that easy. You wouldn't just pop up on T'Challa in the middle of a council meeting and be like 'Hey, let's get married!'." Bucky shakes his head and pulls his hair into a half-hearted bun after feeling the loose strands whip around his face.

"'Challa's different, he lives for this strategy crap, but Stevie? You could literally throw the ring at him during a sparring match and it'd be the same as if you took him to a game and proposed over the jumbotron. You do have the ring don't you?" He does; they've been hidden in one of his shoes for almost a month. That had been a fight all by itself; finding a ring inconspicuous enough to not get questioned but beautiful enough to still be a wedding band. He had even considered putting the ring in a glass of champagne but he'd never had to use the Heimlich and he'd rather keep it that way.

"Yeah, they're platinum, got the day we met engraved on the inside." Bucky stifles his laughter.

"And you call me a sap. Look, all I'm saying is that you're over thinking it. Just sit him down and ask him, no extra required." Suddenly his phone starts buzzing and a picture of grumpy cat comes on screen. "Oh, there's my booty call. Don't wait up for me, buddy." Sam groans as he puts it to his ear and hops up from the table. " _Mholo, usana,_ " he purrs, strolling toward the bathroom. Sam sighs.

"Those two are weird." He looks expectantly at his phone for some reason. Though he'd rather get his lights punched out than admit it Bucky's right. He sets his jaw and sends the text before he can psych himself out of it.

_We need to talk when you get home_

He drinks the last of his coffee and starts the walk home; a little longer without Bucky to tease. He doesn't think twice when his phone buzzes in his hand but he sure double takes when he remembers the topic of the conversation.

_**Am I in trouble?** _

_No, I have a surprise for you_

The next reply comes faster, he gets it before he's even back to the tower. 

_**I can't wait. Are you and Bucky being nice to each other?**_

He chuckles to himself and feels the weight of keys that aren't his in his pocket. Something tells him Bucky's going to have a rough time getting into his apartment today. 

_Of course_

**Author's Note:**

> Fluff or filth? Porque no las dos? If you want extra credit you can plug those bits of Wakandan into google translate. Marvel HQ confimed that the Wakandan used in CACW is actually Xhosa, a south African language.  
> Did Bucky ever get his keys back? Who knows?


End file.
